Home Isn't Always a Place
by WriteOrLeft
Summary: Teen!Lock AU- Sherlock and John meet as teens at an orphanage. Inspired by something I saw floating around somewhere, but I'm not sure exactly where... 10 chapter-fic. Will feature other characters as well, and will cover teenage all the way to adulthood.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**** I own nothing from the Sherlock universe.**

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"This'll be where you'll be sleeping, Sherlock. This place isn't separated by age, so it's just a big bunch of all you lads together. All different ages. Won't that be nice?" The youth worker with the too-bright smile on her face says with forced enthusiasm.

She's a good actress, he'll giver her that— it's almost difficult to tell that she's actually not being completely sincere. That is, if it weren't for the way she keeps her hands tied tightly behind her back, visibly uncomfortable, trying not to touch anything. Not to mention the very obvious way she keeps flitting her eyes towards the door when she thinks Sherlock can't see, just waiting for the second she can escape.

Sherlock Holmes sighs and rolls his eyes. "Yes, it's just fantastic. It'll be such fun, Laura. You can leave now, I'll figure the rest out." He sets down his suitcase on the bed he's been allotted, and busies himself in unzipping it, trying to tell himself that he doesn't feel the pang of abandonment. It's silly, he's been through this enough times. It should be routine by now. He tries to ignore the way she audibly and visibly expressed her relief at finally being able to leave._ She's a youth worker for goodness sake, isn't it part of her job to be supportive? _

"Right then, I'll be off." She hesitates just a moment, and then says, "Listen, Sherlock, this is the fourth home we've tried in less than a year." Sherlock tries not to laugh at her word choice. He's always hated euphemisms, but this tops them all. _It's an __**orphanage**__. _He wants to say. _For orphans, because that's what I am, an __**orphan.**_The woman always avoids the word like the plague, and Sherlock hates her for it. He doesn't need pity, and he certainly doesn't need anyone _thinking_ that he needs pity.

"Do you think we can try to make it stick this time?" She continues, her voice almost pleading. "It's a newer home, it's only been open for a few months. So they're still taking in new children. Maybe you'll meet someone you get along with? Besides, this place even allows Saturday outings, so maybe you could meet up with Mycroft sometime, hmm?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Sure. I'll do my best."

The trying not to get kicked out part, he means. He supposes that it is rather foolish that he keeps switching residences. It's just that every orphanage he's been at is full of complete idiots. He couldn't deal with everyone's stupidity. And, well let's just say that he made his annoyance _quite_ apparent.

He'd try behaving himself to the best of his ability, but he would certainly _not _do his best at making friends, or visiting his brother, Mycroft. Friends were a nuisance, and Sherlock didn't understand their use. Besides, he's never been good at making friends to begin with. As for his poor excuse of a brother, Mycroft was too busy with university to care about him. After all, he was letting his 12-year old brother rot away in a stupid orphanage all alone, so why would Sherlock bother visiting him?

Laura beams her signature every-thing-is-going-to-be-all-right smile. "Excellent! Well, I'll be off then. Be good, Sherlock, and just ring if you need anything." She awkwardly places her hand around Sherlock's shoulders, half-hugging him, and then click-clacks away in her heels.

Sherlock Holmes closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. _Finally alone._ He opens his eyes and takes a good look at his "home" for the next while. Rows of metal cots line each wall, about 20 or so on each side, with a trunk sitting at the foot of each one. The cots are all made up, but a few here and there show signs of life and ownership. A book lying on one here, a hat there. The beds all look lived-in, yes, but certainly not comfortable. Nothing like his old wooden bed back home, with its blue comforter and four pillows, worn and safe and familiar. He shakes away the memory and goes back to unpacking his things and placing them in his trunk. He wants to finish quickly so that he can busy himself with a book before the other kids come back inside. They're all playing out in the yard, and the staff left him alone at Laura's request. That was her one redeeming quality, he supposes. She accepted, although not understood, his need to be in solitude. He pulls out his book and settles on the bed, moving and fidgeting to find a comfortable position, but ultimately giving up.

_This place will certainly never be home, _he thought. But at least his books would always be there for him. He cracks it open, an old copy of his father's one of the few things he decided to bring with him. Most of his stuff is being kept in a storage facility until he's 18, but he wanted to have a couple of important items with him at all times. A handkerchief his mother made him, a family photo, his old favorite eye-patch from childhood, and a few books.

These were the things Sherlock Holmes decided to safeguard when setting off on his new life. It was stupid and pointless, he knew. What good do material possessions have, really? But when he was packing up months ago for the first time, he realized that a part of him just didn't want to see his old stuff locked up in cardboard boxes.

He flips to his current page, breathing in the musty smell the pages give off, letting the scent transport him through memories of reading in his father's study for as long as he could remember, and letting the words transport himself to another world.

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**A/N:**** Thanks for reading! **

**I'm really excited about writing this, hopefully it doesn't suck too bad?**

**Lemme know how you guys liked it!**

**-WriteOrLeft**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** **I own nothing from the Sherlock universe.**

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John Watson walked up the recently painted stairs of what would be his home for the next while. Brendan, his youth worker opened the door for him and they both walked in. What hit him first was the sharp smell of lemon-cleaner and paint. This place was too new for its own good. Everything was too clean. John hated it.

They're greeted by a woman in her 40's with old-fashioned glasses and mousy hair.

" 'Ello there loves! My name's Beatrice, but everyone calls me Ms. B, or just B if you like. You must be John Watson. We've been expecting you."

John sticks out his hand to shake the lady's.

"Hello."

Brendan hands Beatrice John's paperwork. "Ms. Smith, I'm terribly sorry, but I have to get going. Here's John's file, my number's in there if you need anything."

"You okay, John? Sorry, you know I'd stay if it weren't an emergency."

John shrugs half-heartedly. He's used to being left alone.

Brendan hesitates just a second. "It's my wife, John, I really want to help you get settled buddy, but she needs me."

"It's fine, don't worry about me. I'll manage."

John turns to follow Ms. B.

"You hungry love? We can get you something to eat if you'd like. Before I show you to your room."

"That's fine, I ate before coming."

"Suit yourself. I'll show you your room then, follow me."

They walk up a flight of stairs and again John can smell the overwhelmingly clean smell the whole smell gives off.

"We do things kinda different 'round here. We don't separate the children by ages, so instead of being with other 16-year olds, you'll have to be with children of all ages. We feel that it's better for bonding and friendships, don't you?"

"Mhmm." He mumbles.

They walk into an empty room lined with beds on each side.

"The rest of the boys are having their lessons. We have our own classrooms on the third floor. So you'll have the place to yourself for a while, sound good?"

"Mhmm."

Beatrice chuckles. "Man of few words, I see. That's fine, I completely understand, love. You're at bed number 14, right there. And here's the key to your trunk." She says, handing him a keychain and pointing to a bed on the left side of the room. "Would you like me to stay here, or would you like some time on you own?"

"I'd like to be alone, if that's fine."

"No problem, I'll be downstairs. Cafeteria is the 2nd door to the right when you enter the main foyer, if you get hungry. Just let whoever's in there know that you're new, tell 'em your name, and they'll give you some supper. I'll be off then, love. I really do hope that you'll like it here. I know your life has been unbelievably difficult the past bit. We're gonna do our best to help you get through it." She squeezes his shoulders and he smells a whiff of her perfume, and it makes a knot appear in his stomach. His Mum used to wear the same kind.

Beatrice walks out of the room, and John carries his suitcase to bed 14. He unlocks his trunk and begins unpacking his things.

The 16-year old has never found much use for fashionable clothing, and the few items he's brought with him are comfortable and well-worn. His wardrobe consists of woolly jumpers and striped shirts—sensible and safe. He hates sticking out and his neutral clothing helps him blend-in and stay in his own little world.

He's always been a reserved person, choosing to keep his thoughts and words to himself rather than sharing it with anyone else. But especially since his mother passed away, he's become more and more quiet, speaking only if he absolutely needed to. He's been bounced from foster home to foster home, until Brendan found out about this new all-boys orphanage that opened up.

He quickly puts his belongings away and takes out his medical encyclopedia. He's been reading it ever since his mother died. Both his parents died from cancer. Why and how he had the horrible luck of both his parents falling ill from cancer and dying because of it he didn't understand. But he knew that he wanted to help get rid of cancer once in for all once he was older. He wanted to be a doctor, and he figured it was never too early to begin learning about it.

He reads and reads until his stomach begins growling. He ignores it and keeps studying, stopping only when other boys begin trickling in the room. He tries to pretend like he doesn't hear the whispers and the questions. He keeps reading until he sees, out of the corner of his eyes, a dark figure sitting on the bed beside him, leaning forward on his knees and facing him.

He tries to ignore it, but can practically feel the boy's eyes staring holes into his skull, so finally he shuts his book and looks towards his left.

"What?" He says to the curly-haired boy staring at him. His eyes are an icy shade of blue and he stares at John with an intensity that makes him feel uneasy.

"You know it's quite rude to stare." He says to the tall lanky-limbed boy who must be about his age. Maybe a few years younger.

The boy keeps staring.

John waves his hand in front of the strange boy. "Hello?"

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**A/N:**** Short chapter, I know, but it was a necessary filler for the next one, when our two boys meet.**

**Just to recap, Sherlock is 12 and John is 16- I roughly estimated their age difference**

**Thanks for reading!**

**-WriteOrLeft**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:**** I own nothing from the Sherlock universe.**

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"I know. I wasn't staring." The strange boy says suddenly, just when John was about to give up and turn away.

"Ah! So you _can _speak."

He rolls his eyes and swings his feet back up onto his bed, sitting up against the headboard. "How very observant of you." He opens up a book and starts reading.

John is amazed. "So, what? That's it, you stare at me and then don't say anything."

The boy doesn't respond, just flips his page.

Scoffing, John says, "Suit yourself, freak." And gets up to go find something to eat. Just as he walks by his strange neighbor's bed, he speak up.

"Your parents—it was cancer, wasn't it?"

John freezes in his steps, the all-too-familiar pang in his gut that appears whenever someone mentions what happened to his parents returning.

It takes him a few seconds to swallow the lump in his throat and clear his mind. Only then does it occur to him that this stranger that he met just a few minutes ago should _not_ know that fact.

Slowly, John turns around to face the boy, who is still nonchalantly reading as if he asked a casual a question as, _How's it going?_

John stresses each word as he says more than asks, "What. Did. You. Say."

The boy flips a page and repeats himself.

_"How. Do. You. Know. That."_

The boy flips another page and the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk, and John has to resist the urge to jump across the bed and strangle him.

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. He's a stranger, you can't hurt him. Breathe. It was probably a lucky guess. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

When he's regained control of his breathing and no longer sees red, John relaxes his fists at his side. He crosses back over and sits down on his own bed.

"I want an answer. How on earth could you _possibly _know that? What, did you steal my files or something?"

The boy puts up a finger, as if to say _one second._ A few seconds later, he bookmarks his page and sets the book down, turning back around with his feet on the ground to face John.

"No."

_What is wrong with this kid?_ "No to what? No you won't answer me, or—"

"No, I didn't steal your files, John Watson." The boy interrupts.

John's eyebrows shoot up. "How do you know my name!?"

The boys snorts. "Your suitcase." He states, pointing to it.

John calms down. "Oh." He says dumbly. "Okay… But you still haven't told me how you knew about my parents, whatever your name is."

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." He puts his hand out for John to shake it. He doesn't.

Sherlock laughs and takes his hand back. "Fair enough. How do I know about your parents? I didn't. I guessed based on your appearance. You look thin, younger than you must be—what, 16,17? You look no older than 13, 14 at most. Cancer victim kids usually look younger than they are because of the emotional toll of watching your parents slowly waste away to nothing, I don't know how, but somehow that emotional stress translates to physical appearance. Although, that could be just because you're quite short….. I'm guessing your father died first, you're still dressed quite well, so your mother must have kept on top of making sure you looked and ate well, as mothers do, not to say that fathers don't, just that there may be a higher chance of it being your mother. She must have died second. Of course, I don't know for sure if _both_ your parents died from cancer, that part was just a guess. There's also your medical encyclopedia. Looks well worn, well used. You're clearly obsessed with it, shows that you have some sort of deep-rooted emotional need to learn as much as you can, possibly because of previous experiences causing you to be obsessively driven to teach yourself as much as you can about the human body. Then there's the statistical evidence, a very common cause of death in adults is cancer. And then there's just the way you carry yourself… like you're… broken or something." Sherlock finishes with a shrug.

John sits in silence for a few seconds, waiting for the boy's rant to sink in.

"So… you figured all that out, just by staring at me?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. I _deduced _all that by _observing _you."

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**A/N:**** Short chapter, I know, but I wanted to at least update _something_. **

**I've been focusing on a shorter 2-chapter Sherlock fic, that I'm done now, called "Hindsight", which I am very proud of :) **

**So, hopefully I'll be able to finish this one now.**

**Thanks for reading and reviewing!**

**-WriteOrLeft**


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